“And yet you are happy.”
“I’ll say I am.”
He laughed but did not continue the subject. “I’ve a rather wonderful collection of earrings. Would you like to look at them? Queer fad, isn’t it? But I’ve picked them up everywhere.”
“Why earrings?”
“Other things are commonplace—brooches, necklaces, tiaras. But there’s romance in the jewels that women have worn in their ears. You’ll see.”
He went into another room and brought back a tray. It was lined with velvet and the earrings were set up on tiny cushions. It was a unique display. Cameos from ancient Rome, acorns of human hair in the horrible taste of the sixties—gypsy hoops of gold—coral roses in delicate fretted wreaths—old French jewels—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and seed pearls, larger pearls set alone to show their beauty, and a sparkling array of modern things, diamonds in platinum—long pendants of jade and jet—opals dripping like liquid fire along slender chains.
She hung over them.
“Which do you like best?” he asked.
“The pearls?”
He was doubtful. “Not the white ones. These——” he picked up a pair of sapphires set in seed pearls—rather barbaric things that hung down for an inch or more. “They’ll suit your style. Have you ever worn earrings?”